


Dressed to Kilt

by SilverMiko



Series: Sight Unseen [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Costume Party, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Halloween, Molly Is A Bit Not Good, One Night Stands, Romance, Sherlock is a pirate, Sherlolly - Freeform, vague doctor who discourse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 19:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11974023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverMiko/pseuds/SilverMiko
Summary: It's Halloween and as Sherlock and Molly dance around each other on the heels of a tense couple of weeks, they find themselves in each other's company at a NSY costume party. A few shots, a dance, and Tube ride later, the night does not go as Molly expected.





	Dressed to Kilt

**Author's Note:**

> It might make sense to listen to "Not In Love" by Platinum Blonde while reading this, thank Spotify Discover Weekly choosing it for me and inspiring this latest installment.  
> It really makes sense to read the previous installments in this series. I really should have made this a multi-chapter fic but too late now. :D
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy the sexual tension and liberally applied Adam Ant references.

     A domestic was a terrible way to start the month, but here they were. By the end of October the Watsons seemed to be practically strangers living in the same house, with John freezing Mary out unless it was related to the baby. Sherlock was much kinder; after all, she’d only shot him. It was the least of his current worries.  
And so he was in the middle, exactly where he did not want to be. Perhaps that’s why he found himself at some bar by NSY, on Halloween, and worse yet...in costume. He told himself he’d only accepted Lestrade’s invitation to take a break from the Grand Watson Drama. It had nothing to do with a stalemate in Mary’s case or the fact that one Molly Hooper was present at the costume party. Present and wearing a tartan skirt no less, if one were to notice such things. She looked far more comfortable from her perch on a barstool and being far too chummy with Lestrade sitting next to her. He was dressed as some sort of Victorian-era adventurer, which was at least unexpected. Sherlock half-thought he’d be dressed as some vintage bobby. There was alway something. Molly appeared to laugh at something Lestrade said, and Sherlock couldn’t help the annoyance that gripped him. Things between them were okay (more or less) and it wasn’t that they were exactly avoiding each other but it wasn’t like either went out of the way to be in each other’s company at the moment. The angry tension that had dwelled between them had changed, morphed into a different kind of charged energy. He tried his best to not think on it too hard, but now that he was there at pub and she was in his immediate proximity his feet seemed want to move into her direction.  
    He reached up to scratch at his curls, covered by the tricorn on his head. The bar was hot, packed with people, and he could feel himself begin to sweat beneath the brocade coat he wore. Perhaps he should have rethought his costume choices, but it was too late.  
    “Oi, if it isn’t the dandy highwayman himself!” Lestrade called out, chuckling as he took in sight of Sherlock’s costume.  
    “Highwayman? I suppose of a sort, if one replaced road with seas.”  
     He gave Molly the barest of nods in greeting, and she gave a polite half smile while sipping her drink. Some apple bourbon thing, no doubt. She loved those sort of autumnal drinks that were spicy, sweet, and at least 40 proof.  
     “Well, now that you’re here it’s time for another round!”  
     “Oh Greg, I don’t think that’s a great idea, I’ve barely put a dent in this,” Molly said dismissively, waving her drink around lightly.  
     “Don’t be so prim, Hermione Granger, it’s a party!”  
     “That’s not who I’m dressed as,” she replied quietly, and Sherlock could tell she was trying not to roll her eyes. He wasn’t sure who this Miss Granger was, but clearly that was not her costume.  
     “Well then, just the boys then. Have a drink, Sherlock,” Greg insisted.  
     “Mmm, not sure it’s wise.”  
     “Oh come on, don’t be such a Goody Two Shoes,” Greg smirked, as if he were the only one in on some private joke.  
     Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
     “Wonderful!” Greg said, far too amused and Sherlock wondered if he really was missing something. A moment later, Greg was handing him a pint.  
     “Well, cheers mate, Stand and Deliver!”  
     “Hardly the right use of the expression, I believe it’s bottoms up.”  
     “What’s that, insect boy?”  
     “Come again?”  
      Molly started laughing then, practically crying with the force of her giggles.  
      “You honestly think he knows who Adam Ant is?” she asked, grinning at Greg in a way that definitely made Sherlock more than annoyed.  
      “Fair point. What are you supposed to be, Sherlock?”  
      “Isn’t it obvious? A pirate.”  
      Greg raised an eyebrow.  
      “That...is not what I pictured.”  
     “Your lack of imagination is not new information, George.”  
     “Sherlock be nice. It’s a party. Drink up me hearty, yo ho!” Molly said, trying to keep the spirits up.  
      “Don’t make jokes, Molly, it’s really…”  
      “It totally is my area, thank you very much. Enough of that. Cheers mates, Happy Halloween!”  
     They clinked their glasses and Sherlock drank. He supposed he was grateful; he was alive, Molly had forgiven him somewhat, and the Game was still afoot in the background. Cheers, indeed. With Lestrade as a buffer between the slightly awkward dancing around each other Sherlock and Molly were doing, somehow the drinks kept flowing and then eventually Greg had the brilliant idea to do shots. Sherlock had no idea why he agreed, other than Molly was smiling and it kept him between her and Lestrade. He was divorcing his wife, last thing Molly needed was to be a rebound. Or someone like Lestrade, so...so _nice_. He’d thought that’s what she deserved, what would make her happy, but it was becoming clear that ‘nice’ and ‘normal’ weren’t really Molly Hooper’s cup of tea. He was definitely not jealous Lestrade’s attention towards Molly. Jealous implied a level of caring that Sherlock Holmes simply did not do.  
It was likely the tequila that prompted him to take her hand when Lestrade stumbled closer to her. Definitely the tequila that had him tossing out a quick, “Molly let’s dance.” He loved to dance, he had said the very thing to Janine at John’s wedding. Some ‘80s rock sounding song began to play, but he would never be able to name the band. Anything after 1880s was rubbish, really. But he moved to the music as he and Molly now literally awkwardly danced at each other.  
And she, looking up at him through her lashes, looked murderous.

***

 

     Molly hadn’t been looking to pull when she accepted the invitation to the costume party and spent much of the evening drinking with Greg. They were friends, both having ended long-term relationships, and there was something commiserating about it. She wanted nothing more than a good drink, fun, and for someone to actually figure out who she was dressed as. Really, small goals all in all, and she supposed two of three wasn’t bad. Guesses of her costume included Hermione Granger, a schoolgirl, Rod Stewart of all the fucking things, and Groundskeeper Willy by some American bloke. She didn’t think it was that hard! A kilt, black turtleneck, and she’d even pinned her hair just so to look boyish. Did none of these people have childhoods watching scifi reruns on telly? Maybe she should have been something a bit more standard, like Sally’s cat costume or Anderson’s mummy.  
     “Are you my mummy?” she had muttered under her breath, giggling to herself.  
     “What’s that, Molls?” Greg asked, raising a brow at her.  
     “Oh nothing. Nothing, just amusing myself.”  
     “Right, what’s your poison? On me.”  
     “Aw thanks, mate! Bourbon baked apple, please.”  
     Very quickly their little semi-pity party of two was made to three. When Sherlock had showed up, it didn’t exactly sour her mood so much as put her the teeniest bit on edge. When Greg teased him about being dressed as Adam Ant, she was amused again. Sherlock really was a poor sport to be the butt of any pop culture jokes, they always flew over his tall head. But she had to admit, the black and gold-trimmed brocade coat he wore was quite dashing over a matching vest and leather trousers. Leather trousers that did little to hide his well-shaped arse. Lord, all that running around chasing criminals certainly had some toning benefits.  
    But it was the tequila talking, no, thinking. She’d luckily not said that out loud. Sober Molly Hooper did not ogle Sherlock Holmes’ arse...well, so openly that was. But Sober Molly was edging her way into the backseat while Warm and Buzzed Molly took her place. In some ways it made it easier dealing with Sherlock, in others so very hard. It wasn’t that she was still mad at him, but she was feeling something and it was eating at her. Sober Molly could put a clamp on her wayward emotions though, Buzzed Molly was starting to feel all the things without restraint. Like anxiety at trying to keep up small talk, amusement when Greg made his jokes at Sherlock’s appearance, a fair amount of appreciation at said costume, and then frustration, of course, because Sherlock Holmes did not know how to behave at parties.  
     She really thought she’d make it through the night just fine, until Greg leaned it to tell her something and Sherlock was suddenly pulling her away to dance. Dance! Sherlock Holmes! Before she knew it they were stumbling into the crowd and moving along to the rock song playing, not talking to each other. In any other time she’d be thrilled by the prospect, dancing with a finely dressed Sherlock, on her favorite holiday no less. But this time she was feeling pretty cross. The chorus of the song, with it’s loud guitar riff, did not help. In fact, it was as is the party playlist had picked the exactly perfect song for the situation.  
    _‘I’m not in love….I’m not in love....’_  
     She sighed, loudly, and clearly annoyed. What was he doing? They barely spend any time together the past few weeks and now he’s acting so...soo...ugh!  
     “You’re upset with me again.”  
     It wasn’t a question. Smart man.  
     “No, I’m just trying to have a good time tonight and honestly I’m feeling crowded right now.”  
     “Because I asked you to dance?”  
     “You asked? Must have missed the part where you did that and didn’t just drag me out here. It’s not like you had anything to worry about anyway.”  
     “What?”  
     “With Greg. That really isn’t going to happen so calm your vest clad tits,” she said, surprised by the boldness of her banter. Tequila, so magical. Always loosened her tongue and made her quippier.  
     “My...what?”  
     “You heard me, Holmes.”  
     She braced herself for the well tread upon denials that always fell from his lips, the man must have them down pat like some personal mantra. In this, he did not disappoint.  
“I’m not jealous,” he said, voice low, as he danced closer to her so they could hear each other, hands gripping her hips as they swayed close together to the music. She didn’t believe his words, and she wondered if he still even believed them. There was no other good reason for him to have dragged her to dance. Either it was jealousy or some sudden burning desire to dance with her. Occam’s razor: all things being equal, the first option made the most sense. His denial annoyed her further,but at least he was a good dancer. There were quite a few things it turned out he was good at. Color rose to her cheeks at the thought, and the phantom sensation that every now and then haunted of the fabric of his armchair scraping against her knees.  
No no, she was feeling snippy now. Focus, Hooper, focus!  
     “Aren’t you? Or are you still pretending you’re above such things. Oh, the Great Sherlock Holmes, too cool for it all! Except not really, you only play at being cool. Cool people don’t catalog 240 something types of ash.”  
     “I thought you liked my ash blog posts!” he said, actually offended. Ooh, 1 Hooper, 0 Holmes. But he seemed so genuinely distressed at that she didn’t have a high opinion of that, childish disappointment almost, that Molly felt her vexation with him dissolve and her humor return. He really was like no one else, the man who pretended to have no heart. Except, try as he might, she’d known long ago he really wasn’t a tin man.  
     “I mean it’s really interesting how obsessive you are about certain things. Ignorant to so many others,” she teased, her arms moving up and down his biceps slowly as they danced.  
     “Ignorant? Me? Then why am I the only one who seems to realize your costume is Jamie McCrimmon from Doctor Who.”  
    She stopped dancing for a moment, and without the momentum she was pressed rather closely against him.  
    “You knew?”  
    “Of course, you made me watch those bloody black and white serials when you let me hide in your flat after I faked my death.”  
    Molly swallowed, throat suddenly feeling thick. How did he? Why did he?..  
    “That was three years ago. You remember something so trivial like that?”  
    “Molly, you literally went on a quarter hour diatribe on why Jamie was the best male Who companion based on a scant few episodes left in existence. Hard to forget. You were ready to break out a powerpoint.”  
    “But you...you didn’t delete that?”  
He looked down at her, eyes intense and so very, very blue.  
    “No.” he said, firmly.  
    And then, much to both his and a bit of her surprised, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.  
    She felt him go still, completely stunned for a moment, as her warm body pressed against his and her lips were moving over his. It reminded her of the time over fifteen years ago when she first snogged him. Also on Halloween. Also at a pub. Except this time she knew damn well who she was snogging. She wasn’t drunk enough that this meant nothing or was poor decision making, if anything the liquor had seemed enough to give her some courage to say what she really wanted to and do what she had wanted to in the moment.  
   “If you weren’t you, this is probably where I’d tell you congratulations, you’ve pulled.”  
    But then he surprised her and pulled her close, his mouth hovering by ear and his words a bit more drawled out than usual, a bit rougher. Must have been the tequila.  
   “But right now, I’m not me. Just some pirate.”  
   “Ahoy, matey,” she moaned out, then cringed. Really? That’s what she said? But it didn’t seem to matter with Sherlock’s hand roaming over her waist and hips. She pulled him in for another kiss, capturing his hat and putting it on her own head. He seemed to study her face for a moment, before coming to some decision.  
    “Let’s go, Hooper,” he said, practically purring.  
    “Where?”she asked, as he led her by the waist out and in the cool night air. She shivered, but she wasn’t really cold. He didn’t answer her question, but instead tried and for once failed to catch a cab.  
     She laughed.  
     “We’re literally four minutes from Charing Cross station. For once in your life, live a little. Take the bloody Tube.”  
     The look he shot her was best categorized as if looks could kill, but there was no coldness in his gaze. She led him to the station, where others in costumes mingling amongst workers getting home late and teens out and about, all packed on the Bakerloo line. And there he sat, oh so menacing his too tight brocade jacket and trousers while she was positively beaming in her little tartan skirt and his pirate hat as she leaned against the deep red pole of the Tube car. They probably looked silly to everyone else, but she was past caring.  
     Sixteen minutes and a few steps later they emerged once more in the cool night air onto Baker Street, and a short walk around the corner he was pulling her inside 221B and up the stairs. She couldn’t help giggling, never imagining this was how her Halloween would have turned out. She thought she’d have a few drinks with Greg, soggy chips, and go home and watch whatever gloriously camp Hammer movies were on telly. Not be pulled up the steps to Sherlock Holmes’ flat for what she suspected was going to be far more than a bit of snogging. Which, speaking of.  
She pushed him back against the sitting room door, which they’d had the good sense to shut and lock, kissing him again, plundering for as long as he’d allow it. Maybe now she was the pirate, taking treasure for her own. It was surprising the amount of liberties he allowed her these days,but she was going to do her best not to think too deeply about it and enjoy the moment. She wouldn’t fuck it up like she had at the wedding, questioning his acquiescence and participation. She really wasn’t going to fuck it up like she had after the wedding, when the first round of actual fucking had occurred. There had been no fun in that, in the end.  
No, he might be suddenly inclined to her advances these days, but that didn’t mean she should expect any declarations of love or updating her status in WhatsApp.  
     “Stop thinking so loud,” he murmured against her lips.  
    “Trying not to, promise,” she replied, biting his lower lip and being rewarded with a groan.  
     They barely made it to the bedroom as costumes were peeled off and scattered across the hallway leading from the kitchen. His sheets were cool against her warm skin, and soft. Probably a billion count Egyptian cotton. But whatever trivial thoughts she’d had about his fine bedding flew out of her mind when he moved on top of her and his mouth was on hers and then moving down her neck, to her collarbone and to everywhere. He’d said he was no virgin, and whatever clinical-like study he’d made of sex in uni it was clear he had definitely picked up a thing or two. Sherlock Holmes did foreplay, who knew?  
    Their second encounter lasted far longer than the first from weeks before, and this time when Sherlock made her come, it far eclipsed the fleeting pleasure she’d taken from the last time.  
After it was over, after laying next to each other a few minutes, she was certain he’d give her some reason to go. But he didn’t, instead he remained laying on his back next to her, his breathing evening out. And, very faint...a snore.  
    He was sleep, the bloody man had fallen asleep! Well then, if he wasn’t inclined to kick her out just yet…She yawned and turned on her side, facing him. He looked so calm in his sleep, peaceful. He was rarely the type to sit still, but there he was doing just that. It made him look a bit younger. She wanted to reach out and brush at his curls, but she stopped herself. She yawned again, feeling her eyelids flutter closed. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have a hangover in the morning.  
    Hours laters, as the blessedly dim grey light of London morning filtered in through Sherlock’s blinds, Molly felt herself slowly and reluctantly waking up. It was hard to want such a thing when she was surrounded by deliciously solid heat. It was that sensation that made her realize two things: one, she’d shagged Sherlock Holmes. Again. Two, she was still in his bed and he was presently snuggled up against her. She’d never pegged him a cuddler, but here they were. She felt quite satisfied and wanted nothing more than to curl up into him more and sleep some more. But she wouldn’t. It was a bit too much to stay. She wasn’t even sure he wanted her to stay in the sobering light of day.  
    She’d rather not find out, if she were honest. And so, she slid out of bed like the coward she knew she was. She’d send a text once safely on the Tube thanking him for a lovely shag and promising in a forcefully light tone that she wouldn’t read anything into what had happened this second time. Better she’d take the initiative before he rejected her. But she wasn’t even sure he would reject her and there was something vaguely terrifying in that as well. And so she ran, scrambling to put her clothes on as she quickly walked down the hallway and out the door. She was sure he wouldn’t be upset. As to anything else he felt (or claimed to not feel), well, her guess was as good as anyone’s right now. She was learning to take life in small bites these day, little victories where she could. For now she’d just be content in the fact that she’d had another go at Sherlock, a proper one at that, and it had been bloody marvelous. She could worry about the fallout later, if it ever happened. They were getting spectacular at denial and brushing a lot of things under the rug.  
She scrambled her way onto the Jubilee line car, glad that the oversized coat enveloped her. It was bloody freezing, but at least she’d had some forethought before leaving 221B to do the proverbial walk of shame home. She reached for her mobile from inside her purse, biting her lip as she began typing a message she really didn’t want to type, but knew she had to anyway. She was Little Miss Perfect, she’d take control of the situation.

***

 

     Sherlock had lied there in bed, pretending to still be asleep while listening to Molly get out of bed and leave, hearing her steps go down the stairs. He finally opened his eyes, briefly looking over to the empty space next to him that she had occupied for the night. Occupied because he’d let her stay. He’d slept next to her many times over their long friendship, and she had always been good about giving him space. She usually slept curled up on her side, facing the wall. She had always favored sleeping on her left side. Truthfully, and much to his chagrin, it was he that seemed to not be as keen to give space while asleep. He’d woken up before her a few times over the years, aghast that he appeared to be spooning her, an arm thrown over her while she slept through it all. And that was when things were utterly platonic. But now...  
     He’d let it happen again with her.  
     Once could be chalked up to a mistake or random act, twice was looking rather intentional. He should be hating himself for the perceived weakness of it all, but instead it had felt good. Bloody good, like the best high without the worst crash. He’d shut himself down from this so long ago, finding the act mildly pleasant at best but not earth-shattering like most people insisted. Maybe the problem was he approached it too scientifically, maybe it really was better with someone you lo…  
    His phone pinged. Groggily, he reached towards his nightstand for his mobile and saw he had a new text from Molly. Well, there went wondering if she’d say anything about it.  
_Hi Sherlock, sorry to leave, had to go and feed Toby. I’m sure you’re not actually upset or anything, but just didn’t want to be rude. Anyway, about last night. Let’s call it bygones. We had a bit too much to drink, a lot’s happened over the past few months, so I’m not going to read too much into it. We’re square, ok? Talk to you later. - Mx_  
     He knew her words were cautiously light; she feared he was going dismiss her. He could hardly fault her given his previous behavior over the years. She expected him to run from it in a way, from her, and years ago that would have been accurate. Well, years ago he wouldn’t have ended up sleeping with her, twice.  
Maybe in the next life. They’d said something like that before he’d left for two years. Funny thing, how he really wasn’t the same anymore no matter how much he tried. Two years ago, Sherlock Holmes would have sent Molly Hooper off with a brisque and to-the-point quip, as gentle a set down as he could muster.  
But he couldn’t bring himself to do it now. She deserved better than for him to fuck up the memory of what was a very mutually pleasant encounter with his cold logic and detached demeanor, especially when she was trying to convince him (and herself) that she apparently understood it was a no-strings attached sort of thing. He had never said that was what he wanted, but it was easier letting her think it, wasn’t it?  
     It should be closure; whatever it was between them that had been crackling and building since his return, now finally sated. Her feelings for him had finally had some sort of validated action, and his recent fascination towards her should have been a curiosity satisfied. He’d strangely longed for her while he was gone, now he’d had her twice, well, she’d had him. It should have been enough. An end point.  
     But he was smart, exceptionally so, and saw how exponentially flawed that hypothesis was.  
    This wasn’t clinical or an experiment. It was far more than that.  
    His phone pinged again.  
  _PS- borrowed your coat. Sorry, was really cold and I forgot mine at home. Pick up at your convenience._  
     He sighed, shifting back into the bedding more. What a day. But his personal life would have to wait, he other things to think about. Like Christmas.


End file.
